


two lovers in a painting by Chagall

by yasgorl



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 17:53:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7397539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yasgorl/pseuds/yasgorl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the door swings open again Sam knows it’s Bucky without having to turn around.</p><p>“Hey, mister. Seen a friend of mine walk past? Surly fella with some killer cheekbones.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	two lovers in a painting by Chagall

When the rear tire gives out it’s almost no surprise. Sam grabs onto the door handle with his right hand and holds his left out in warning to Steve whose quick reflexes have already kicked in, his capable hands grappling the steering wheel as the van jerks and sways.

They’d bought it at a junkyard a week before; paid full in cash, no ID, no questions. Sam had sat on a fallen tree trunk out where they’d parked it a mile from their cabin, idly wondering if he’d get an ass full of splinters for his casual voyeurism, and watched Bucky tinker with the engine for a good few hours.

Bucky’s shirt had gone dark in the back with sweat, stuck to the broad muscle of his shoulders and below his arms. He’d emerged from behind the hood just as Sam was finishing off the ripe apple he’d picked from the overgrown orchard nearby, swiping at his face so a trail of grease marred the plane of one high cheekbone.

“You’re gonna pay for the show or lend a hand, Wilson, your choice,” Bucky had called out.

It was hard to tell sometimes with Bucky, he could give as good as he could get; deadpan so well he put Steve to shame. Sam had smiled, tossed the apple core over his shoulder for some lucky forest herbivore to find, and walked the few feet over to join him. Then he’d been close enough to see the sly quirk of Bucky’s lips and know exactly what mood he was in. He’d handed him wrenches and screws, waving them around in the air every now and then so Bucky had to finally reach out and catch Sam’s wrist, give him a look loaded with promise.

Now Bucky’s the first out as the van lurches to a final halt. He’s silent, a quick shared glance through the rear-view mirror to catch Sam’s eye, then the sigh of the well oiled--they’d taken care of that too--sliding side door as he exits.

Relatively speaking, it isn’t the worst thing that’s happened today, more like the icing on top of a shit cake. They’d spent about a week planning and reconning their first official mission as unofficial Avengers, or whatever the hell they were now. A long abandoned Hydra cell they’d been hoping had been left as storage. Bucky had his own reasons, which he wasn’t quick to disclose. Steve had the Reader’s Digest version; getting their hands on Hydra mission reports before anyone else would have the chance to do so again. Stupid was letting it happen once. Crazy was giving history the dispensation to repeat itself.

“Tell me we’ve got a spare, Buck,” Steve calls out, once the three of them are out, feet crunching over gravel. He’s dusted up just as bad as the rest of them, the black of his suit nearly gray, though where Sam is still cut on his arms Steve’s already healed over.

Bucky only grunts and stalks right past them, not even sparing a glance down to the busted tire. He walks purposefully behind and around the van, checking the perimeter, then disappears into the scraggle of nearby woods.

“Great,” Sam says. He slams the side door so hard the whole van shakes.

*

Steve and Sam take turns changing into civilian gear. They use wet wipes to get the worst of the dust and grit. Sam isn’t sure if it’s dirt or dried blood beneath his fingernails but he scrubs it off all the same. He feels dumb, frozen, like his brain is slogging through mud. A truck rushes by on the highway, leaves and debris rustling in its wake and suddenly Sam’s hearing the sound of Bucky breathing harsh and frantic, Sam’s fingers shaking as he stitched him up.

Sam blinks, shakes his head.

“Sam,” Steve says. His expression is carefully blank.

“Let’s go,” Sam replies.

“Wanna wait for him?”

Sam grabs his duffel, heavy with his gear, and slams the door shut.

“He’ll make it.”

*

The first sign of civilization they encounter is a lone dive bar on the outskirts of town. Motorcycles and pickup trucks line the unmarked empty space to the front and side that serves as a parking lot. Bucky keeps walking as Steve and Sam approach the entrance, feet silent on packed dirt. Sam leaves his gear behind an overgrown hedge to the side. Steve pulls the front door open, so fast it nearly swings off its hinges.

“Dude,” Sam says, under his breath. Steve spares him a brief, apologetic smile.

The interior’s so filled with smoke Sam can barely make the bar across the dimly lit haze. The crack of billiards sounds out from the side, raucous laughter and shouts, chairs scraping across wooden flooring and heavy glass tankards being picked up and set down.

The bartender’s a short, grizzled woman with a shock of salt-and-pepper hair. She has rings on nearly every finger. She nods once to them both in greeting.

“Anything dark on draft?” Steve asks, while Sam takes a seat on an empty stool. The urge to let his eyes wander is strong. Instead, he looks straight ahead at the mirror behind the bar and scopes the place out, leaning casually back in his chair like he’s in here every Friday night. He notices Bucky entering through a side entrance, slipping through the groups of patrons like a wraith. No one pays him any mind. They never do. When Bucky wants to remain unseen he can move through a crowded room without a soul spotting him. Sam’s thinking of this and his numerous attempts to mimic Bucky’s talent when two tankards descend on the rough hewn surface before him and Steve.

Great. All well and good for the two supersoldiers to drink on the job. He shoots Steve a look which he hopes fully conveys a mixture of _Come on, man_ and _Fuck off_. Steve has the decency to wince in apology.

They take their drinks to a far corner and settle at a booth. The floor feels sticky underfoot. Sam takes a few baby bird sips like he’s having tea at his Gammy’s house then grabs a handful of peanuts to occupy his time. Shit. That’s good shit. For a second he wishes he could just sit here forever, drink his body weight in beer and pass out. Not have to worry who might be on their tail or how long between the distress signal and help arriving would take or if anyone’s noticed anything different and all the worrying’s for nothing. But that’s how it is, now. If he thought Avenging was a challenge under the official banner, it was only about a hundred times more difficult cloaked in secrecy and on a shoestring budget. Sometimes it was hard not to nudge Steve towards picking up that burner phone and soliciting Tony’s help. Or his technology. Or money. Money and technology would do just fine, actually, if they could leave the Tony part out. But Sam had a feeling Steve was holding that card close to his chest.

“Local fire department’s on location,” Steve says, low so only Sam can hear. A cheer erupts from the far corner of the bar, where a few patrons sit, craning their heads up to watch the game. Just a few months ago Sam would have had the whole season memorized. Now it’s just a passing thought. He can’t even bother to care about not caring. His eyes slide inevitably to Bucky’s broad shoulders at the bar, body language slouched careless and easy.

Steve stares down at his phone for a second more before shoving it in his pocket. It passes for an older model flip phone until you take a closer look at the screen.  

“You stay here. I’ll get us a spare and we can drive back,” Steve says.

He hesitates when Sam doesn’t respond, so Sam raises his glass in a sloppy salute.

*

Sam spends a good twenty minutes mulling over the rest of his drink before downing the dredges and sliding off his bench. He makes his way to the back end of the bar. He digs around in his inner pocket for a cigarette, lighting it even as he’s pushing through the back door. It’s been years since he last smoked but he’d picked up a pack at a gas station in Baton Rouge and he’s had enough worrying to go through half the damn thing already.

The night air is still heavy with the heat of the day. When the door swings open again Sam knows it’s Bucky without having to turn around.

“Hey, mister. Seen a friend of mine walk past? Surly fella with some killer cheekbones.”

“Oh, you’ve got jokes now?”

Sam flicks ash off the end of his cigarette. It flares bright orange in the dark for a split second.

“Good. We’re on speaking terms again,” Bucky replies, blithely ignoring the question. “Lemme bum one off you.”

Sam digs for the packet in the pocket of his jeans but Bucky’s quicker, filching the one held loosely between Sam’s fingers. His lips go tight around it as he inhales, looking Sam straight in the eyes as he does, the start of a smug smile tugging at his lips. Frustration builds in a sudden crescendo in Sam’s chest. He takes a deep breath in, keeps Bucky’s eye contact, and reaches into his pocket for his lighter, turning away from Bucky to bend over the flame.

“Just gonna take that one off you as well,” Bucky says.

“Kind of a hypocrite, aren’t you?” Sam asks, turning back from his unlit cigarette.

“I’ve got about as much chance of getting cancer as sprouting wings,” Bucky says. His mouth quirks in a near smile. “You know that.”

“And I don’t. I got it the first time, Surgeon General. Least I got the wings down.”

Bucky shrugs, then settles into his usual eerie stillness, the only movement the smoke drifting from the end of his cigarette.

Sam tries again, the urge to needle at Bucky irresistible, to see him show an emotion other than the rock of his calm or the sly sliver of his grin.

“Maybe your plan’s contingent on something that won’t happen,” Sam says slowly. He sticks the cigarette between his lips and brings the lighter up to his face, the unwelcome heat of the flame in the summer night burning bright beneath the curve of one hand. He is but a mortal man, Sam gets that. But it’s never stopped him from living his life, from taking risks and paths that most sane people would steer clear of, would say no thanks, I’d like a chance at living past my 20s. Or, no, I don’t think I’ll join my pigheaded best friend on his one man suicide mission against the strongest forces in the world. Death has always been inevitable. For Sam the inevitability included a slightly closer deadline. He’d made his peace with it years ago.

Sam gets half a lungful in before Bucky’s at his side, filching the cigarette from Sam’s lips and flicking it to the ground. He grinds it into the dirt beneath the sole of one boot.

Sam’s responding instantly. He brings his left forearm up and against Bucky’s chest, shoving him violently, then grabs Bucky’s arm and shoves again. Bucky goes easily, his back hitting the wall of the bar with a resounding thump.

“You really wanna mess with me right now?” Sam asks, his voice a threatening hiss. He pins Bucky in place with his forearm, fingers digging into the meat of Bucky’s bicep. He can feel the heat of Bucky’s broad chest beneath him, the whisper of Bucky’s breath against the side of his face. His eyes flick down to Bucky’s mouth before he can help it. Wide and plush and inviting. Just that morning Sam had been pressing his own lips against them.

Bucky’s hand comes up to clasp Sam’s forearm. Sam expects to be pushed back, flipped over. Bucky’s more than capable of it. His heart grips strangely in his chest and he gives Bucky one more small shove before pulling off and away. His hands are shaking as he tries for another cigarette. He hears Bucky taking a step towards him and whirls around.

“Follow your own damn advice,” Sam spits out. And maybe it's the drink that’s loosened him up or all the hours he spent stewing in silence but his voice wobbles treacherously and he feels something big and overwhelming expand in his chest. “You don’t want me taking a chance with these but it’s okay for you to walk right into an exploding bunker, right?”

“We needed those files.”

“I’ve got the fucking wings, Bucky. Or Redwing. I had a way better chance than you at getting away.”

“Well I did get away, didn’t I?” Bucky asks. He holds his arms out like he’s inviting Sam’s inspection. “Here I am.”

Sam takes Bucky in from head to toe then quickly turns away. His eyes feel wet.

“Look,” Bucky says, reaching for Sam. “Come here, dammit.” Sam pushes his hand away, attempting to turn his back again but Bucky’s stubborn as a mule.

“Fuck off,” Sam mutters. It comes out thick and wavery. He swallows around the ashy taste of smoke in his throat. Bucky grabs Sam’s arm and easily pulls him back. Sam blinks back at him in confusion and Bucky just stares at him, expectant. Then Sam notices Bucky’s hand clutching the hem of his shirt up to his chest, revealing the muscled plane of his chest and stomach.. He’d had a gash across his midsection Sam had stitched up for him in the van just hours earlier; pushing Bucky’s hands away from the needle and thread and telling him to _lie back, dammit_. Now it’s most of the way to completely healed, the stitches fallen off and the skin shiny-new.

“See?” Bucky says, as Sam blinks down at it. The only scars he’s seen on Bucky’s body are the ones around his arm. He wonders vaguely how many there have been that healed up just like this one, soon to completely fade as if nothing had ever happened. How many others Bucky’s body has shored up in the banks of its memory.

Sam turns slowly so he’s facing Bucky completely, and Bucky lets him, hand falling away from where it’s been gripping Sam’s arm. Sam reaches a hand out and presses it to the scar. Bucky’s stomach tenses slightly under Sam’s touch. He’s warm, the skin there under Sam’s palm soft. Bucky lets out an audible breath.

“See?” Bucky asks again, quieter. The moment stretches into silence. Sam feels all out of words, deflated. He takes a half step closer and leans his head down, resting his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder, fist clutching at the front of Bucky’s jacket. His breath catches in his chest when he breathes out, so he holds it until he’s got a semblance of control. Bucky’s hands come up, settling to grip at Sam’s midsection. He slides them up and around to Sam’s back, rubbing consolingly, pulling Sam closer.

A door slams somewhere inside the bar and Sam pulls back, heart kicking in his chest. A second later the back door swings open, laughter and music sounding out in a crescendo. Sam shields his eyes from the sudden light and squints at the familiar silhouette.

“Come on. We’ve got a long walk back,” Steve calls out.

*

“How many secret Avengers does it take to change a tire?” Bucky asks, as soon as their abandoned van is in sight.

“Just one,” Sam shoots back, giving Bucky a small shove. “Get your ass in the van.”

Bucky laughs, shooting a grin back over his shoulder as he opts to walk around and away again, perennially performing his checks.

Steve is visibly startled by the exchange, eyes darting from Sam to Bucky’s retreating form.

“So…” Steve says.

“Yup,” Sam replies. He unlocks the trunk and ducks his head, flipping open the floorboard. “Man, how do we have a wrench and a jack but no tire.”

Sam reaches inside and hands the tools to Steve one by one. Steve’s silent for a long moment and Sam braces himself.

“Those files mean a lot to Bucky.”

“And I’m just here for kicks?” Sam asks. Then, relenting, “I know.”

“Poor planning on our part. But we knew we’d have a few bumps in the road. T’challa’s a good backup but that’s all he is. The rest is on us now. No fancy intel at the drop of a hat, no communications.”

“Trust me, I get it. And I’m not saying my shit’s anywhere near in scale, but--do you know how many times I’ve wanted to call my Ma up and tell her I wasn’t sleeping at the bottom of a riverbed?”

The look on Steve’s face makes Sam instantly capitulate. He shakes his head instead, moving past Steve and grabbing the wrench from his hand.

“Come on, man. It’s been a long day.”

*

Sam drives the last leg to the cabin. That’s what it still is in Sam’s mind, a conscience decision to never let himself begin to think of it as home. They’re ten minutes out when Steve’s burner phone rings. He reaches forward and pops open the glove compartment, then presses against the paneling on the inside until another section slides open. Sam rolls his eyes at the road.

“I left it on,” Steve says in explanation. He reads the text.

“T’challa’s got heat sensors and biometric pattern scans running,” Steve says. He tucks the phone back in place. “Nothing out of place.”

“So you might say the safehouse is--” Bucky starts.

“Don’t,” Sam says.

“Safe for now,” Bucky finishes.

Sam doesn’t have to glance in the rearview mirror to know he’s grinning wide.

“Buck,” Steve says, smiling and shaking his head. He lets out a cut-off laugh, pressing thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.

“Honestly,” Sam says. He bites down on his lower lip to keep from smiling.

The _for now_ part should have been left unsaid. Sam has a moment to reflect again on the irony of their popsicle stand operation having the world’s most powerful tech as backup anytime they fucked up. And that’s all T’challa promised he could do, if they were really gonna take the covert route, filling in the gap while the other former Avengers were either in the wind or caught up in red tape. Their only other Wakandan connection was Bucky’s new arm; black as T’challa’s body armor and exponentially better than the old model, and the cabin outpost that served as their temporary base.

“Hey, you always got a bang outta the idea of summer camp,” Bucky had called out to Steve when they’d first arrived. There was nothing to see from the service road except woodland and the minor river that wound through it until they’d hiked a couple of miles inland. Then it was like walking through an invisible screen--one T’challa assured them enclosed the entire space around the cabin like a dome shaped force field--and another mile on the other side was the safehouse.

It was a modestly sized wooden structure with one of its sides built into a rocky outcropping, so the interior was cool and dim. A side panel in the kitchen dipped and parted to reveal a floor to ceiling comm panel.

“Sweet,” Bucky had said. Then he’d climbed the stairs to the second half-floor two at a time, and leaned over the railing to get Sam following with a smile and a jerk of his head.

*

Sam is the first to bed. He chucks his boots off first at the door then takes the stairs up to the loft with eyelids at half mast, sleep and exhaustion dropping on him like a bag of bricks. Adrenaline does that to you, keeps you wide awake in the moment then lets you freefall to the bottom just as quick.

Sam discards most of his clothing on the floor, mindless, then crawls over the covers and lets his head drop to the pillow with a quiet groan. He’s drifting when Bucky enters the room, doesn’t register Bucky’s footsteps but hears the splash of water as he washes his hands in the basin that acts as their makeshift sink. The bed shifts as Bucky sits to remove his own boots.

“Told you I don’t want them in here,” Sam mutters, so sleepy the words slur together. “Stinking up the place.”

Bucky makes a soft, scoffing sound. Then the heat of his body joins Sam in bed, enveloping him from behind as he pulls Sam to his chest.

“Too damn hot,” Sam says. He makes a futile effort to push Bucky back but it’s like he gets even more annoying and insistent, nosing at the back of Sam’s neck, rubbing his lips there in a near kiss. He hadn’t said another word in the car, like their little blow over never happened, and Sam’s used to it enough by now to understand what Bucky wants to say.

He goes pliant in Bucky’s arms, trying a different tactic. When Bucky’s done cuddling up to him like an overgrown St. Bernard his hold goes slack, and there’s enough space between them that Sam comfortably drifts off to sleep.

It isn’t half bad, that’s what he’s thinking as the dark hold of sleep drags him down, isn’t half bad at all.

*

It’s got to be close to noon when Sam next wakes. Dense, golden sunlight slants through the loft window and across the end of the bed. Sam’s whole body feels heavy. He blinks up at the thick wooden beams lining the ceiling at a slant. When he shifts, Bucky shifts with him, curling closer and sliding an arm up Sam’s naked chest. As much as he sometimes envies Bucky’s ability to drop straight into a dead sleep, he also happens to be the easiest waker Sam knows. Which is saying something with the company he’s kept these past few years.

Bucky cups Sam’s chest and squeezes gently, then shifts closer, throwing a leg over Sam and nuzzling at his neck.

“Mornin,” Bucky mumbles.

“Might be a little later than that,” Sam replies. He lets his eyes drift shut, lazily enjoying the press of Bucky’s body against his own. He brings an arm up around Bucky and tangles his fingers in Bucky’s hair, then slides it down the broad, muscled plane of his back.

“Just in time for a nooner,” Bucky says, voice low and rough from disuse. It’s enough to spark a flare of interest deep in Sam’s gut. The panic of the night before feels distant, a hundred years old.

Bucky wriggles in place then rocks against Sam’s hip, testing for a reaction, just enough so Sam can feel where Bucky is hard and interested.

Sam cracks an eye open lazily. He slides his hand down to cup Bucky’s ass, pulling him closer. Bucky moans in response and ruts down against Sam with a little more purpose. The muscles of his arms strain as he props himself up, his wide mouth falling open, hair hanging down around his face. He stills enough to lean down and press his lips to Sam’s collarbone and throat; soft, wet kisses.

“Mm,” Sam lets out. He sighs, shifting his left knee up so his foot is flat against the bed, turning to meet Bucky halfway. A thought filters through the molasses crawl of his brain and he stops Bucky with a hand flat to Bucky’s chest. Bucky looks up, face solemn.

 _Steve_ , Sam mouths.

Bucky grins wide, devilish.

“Already out,” he says, leaning back down. He kisses up the side of Sam’s neck and Sam lets him, tilting his chin up to give Bucky more, his skin going electric as Bucky finds the sensitive spot behind his ear. He grips Bucky’s ass with both hands, adjusting to line their crotches up, thrilling at Bucky’s hard dick against his own.

“You ready, baby? That good?” Bucky asks, his breath puffing out faster. “What do you want?”

“Can’t put much into it. You scared out all my energy last night.”

Bucky pauses for all of a second, mouth gaping open. Then his head tosses back and he laughs; a full, sweet sound.

“Really? That’s how you’re gonna use that now? Fucking shameless, Wilson.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” Sam replies, making a show of it. He has to fight a responding smile, going slack against the bed and letting his eyelids drift shut, in a poor imitation of his former waking state.

“Oh, you’re gonna get it.”

The mattress dips as Bucky moves. Sam tenses, expecting a full assault. Instead, he cracks his eyes open to find Bucky shifting back, settling between Sam’s legs. He settles on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows, then tilts his head to the side and rubs his cheek against Sam’s thigh, reaching up to curl a hand over Sam’s crotch. He squeezes up the length of Sam’s hardening length with his big hand, then rubs it through the thin fabric with his palm. Sam groans involuntarily, face heating up. He pumps his hips up into the pressure and Bucky responds by curling his metal hand around Sam’s thigh, pulling him down.

“Easy,” Bucky says, smiling mischievously. “We’re having a conversation here.”

“Didn’t hear nobody talking.”

“Shh. What was that?” Bucky says, tilting his ear down to Sam’s crotch. His hand never stops working Sam’s dick, a considerable bulge beginning to tent out the front of his boxers.

“You want me to put my mouth _where_?” Bucky mock-whispers, and he gives the base of Sam’s cock a firm squeeze.

“ _Oh_ ,” Sam says, hips jolting up. His dick leaks precome, wetting the front of his boxers. “You ass.”

Sam tries to push up into Bucky’s grip again but Bucky anticipates the movement and pins Sam down easily. The pressure and the splay of Sam’s thighs makes it all go tight and hot, his groin feeling heavy.

“Bucky,” Sam gasps out. With nothing to grasp he grabs his own thigh and holds himself open. Bucky shifts so his weight against Sam disappears. He reaches inside the open slit of Sam’s boxers, slowly taking him out. Then he licks at Sam’s length immediately with the broad flat of his tongue, laving at the head before popping it into his mouth and suckling softly.

“Oh, fuck.” Sam’s hips buck up uncontrollably. His dick twitches, blood-hot and hard, and Bucky squeezes even more precome out, watching it leak from the head and down the length. It makes the sound of Bucky’s hand on him go dirty and wet. Bucky goes wild for it, holding Sam steady so he can suck up the length, curling over Sam so he can take the head in his mouth again, stroking up and down the base. He looks so fucking beautiful like this, heavy lidded eyes and his red, wet mouth. Sam can’t help but reach out and card his fingers through Bucky’s hair, then down to trace the line of his strong jaw. He presses his thumb to Bucky’s lips, rubbing at the wet there. Bucky makes like he’s gonna bite Sam’s finger and it’s convincing enough that Sam flinches.

“Idiot,” Sam mutters, laughing. He presses again at Bucky’s mouth and Bucky indulges him, wrapping his mouth around Sam’s thumb and sucking up. He keeps his eyes on Sam while he does, making a show of it, the thick line of his eyelashes sweeping down as he sucks it back in.

“Yeah,” Sam breathes out, so turned on he feels a sudden, hot flush of arousal sweeping through him. He pulls his thumb out and presses two fingers in Bucky’s mouth next, watching his lips stretch around them. It’s the kind of thing that looks fucking ridiculous in any other context but the two of them, him and Bucky, the way Bucky dives in and gives every part of himself to Sam. He pulls his fingers away almost reluctantly, pressing his thumb back against the corner of Bucky’s lips.

“Wanna do that on this dick?” Sam asks, voice low.

“If you’d damn well let me,” Bucky mutters grudgingly, but the high points of his cheeks flame hot and he can’t keep Sam’s eye contact.

Sam just keeps silent, cradling Bucky’s face in his hand until Bucky’s over his momentary shyness in a split second, ducking down to lick of Sam’s length again. This time he moves up and curls over so he can really take Sam in his mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” Sam breathes out, head knocking back as he’s welcomed into the wet heat of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky moves down then back up, picking up a slow rhythm. He takes his time with it, holding Sam steady with his hand as he moves his mouth on him. Sam can’t help but push Bucky’s hair out of the way, which Sam sees Bucky noticing in the briefest flicker of smiles. But once Bucky’s in he’s in all the way, so he gives Sam the show he wants, closing his eyes and moaning low in his throat as he takes Sam in deeper.

“Bucky, oh fuck,” Sam grits out, steeling himself from shoving in deeper. He can feel the hot, wet clutch of Bucky’s throat around him, pleasure drawing up tight in his gut. Bucky moans again, moving his hand down to cradle Sam’s heavy balls. He rolls them gently in the palm of his hand and Sam lets out a strangled cry, hips jolting as he comes.

Bucky pulls off as Sam’s dick is still shooting, jerking hard in Bucky’s hand. He keeps stroking Sam’s cock like he’s milking every drop out of him, Sam’s whole body unbelievably taut as his climax refuses to end.

Sam slumps back down with a final whimper, hips twitching under Bucky’s gentle, loose strokes. He’s got just his thumb and forefinger around Sam’s softening length, pulling at him in gentle, tiny movements, and a damn mess between them. He doesn’t stop until Sam pushes at his hand, feeling like he needs to summon all his energy for the one motion.

Bucky watches Sam breathe and unwind for a long moment, cradled between his legs, hands gently stroking up Sam’s thighs. His face is solemn, eyes wide. Then Sam smiles slackly and coughs out a laugh and suddenly Bucky’s the cat that got the cream, returning a lazy, satisfied grin.

“Happy about that, are you?” Sam asks. He knocks his knee against Bucky’s side so he moves closer, crawling up and over Sam. Sam slides his hands up Bucky’s sides.

“Hey, between the two of us you’re the one that got the happy ending,” Bucky replies, ducking down to kiss at Sam’s mouth. Sam eagerly returns it.

“I’d say my bad but there’s still time for yours,” Sam replies. Bucky’s grin goes wide.

*

Bucky leaves afterwards and Sam’s alone in the cabin for a good few hours. He shoves the windows open and leaves both doors ajar for the sun and air to move through. Then he brings his suit out to the back porch and takes a seat on the plywood that served as a makeshift bench, propped up on a pair of cinderblocks. His suit has a few surface tears he can readily fix, though his skills aren’t anywhere close to Stark tech. Hell, half the time he suspected Tony had just manufactured a new one for him from scratch. Tony’s face blooms in Sam’s mind again the way he’d seen him through thick layers of reinforced glass; a well-worn memory at the end of every trail of thought. He’d asked for that promise thinking it would cover all his bases, but there were machinations outside of his purview already spinning in place, greater than Sam could have imagined.

Sam shakes the thought away and forces a long breath in, uncurling from the gear in his lap. He straightens his back and stares straight ahead, into dense forest lit by mid-afternoon light. He focuses on breathing and listening and letting his mind clear until the spike of anxiety in his chest has subsided.

He’s pulled from his reverie by Steve’s voice, calling out from the front.

“Sam?

“Out here,” Sam calls back.

Steve’s head pops into view.

“I got dinner,” he says, flashing his teeth in a smile.

*

Steve’s caught a pair of spotted bass on a line. He lays them out on an ancient, broad stump at the edge of the clearing. Sam settles on the other end and watches Steve gut his catch in a single, expert motion.

“Damn. Look at you, city boy.”

“Spent a couple of years in a war, you might remember,” Steve replies, biting back a smile.

“Still. Sick of canned food already? It’s only been a week,” Sam says, even though he can’t fault Steve one bit. It would only take a single Wakandan meal to spoil any mortal soul for anything else. The transition had been jarring, to put it mildly. Sam had thought he was ready, boarding T’challa’s jet in the softening dark of early morning, the fresh smell of recent rain and dark greenery sealed in as the hatch closed behind them. Then they’d landed to the overwhelming press of summer heat and the cacophony of cicadas calling in the undergrowth and Sam had frozen at the end of the plank, feeling for a second like he was all of nine years old, the taste of ice cold sun tea on his tongue, the press of a cool glass against his temple. It had taken all of his willpower not to grab one of Steve’s burner phones and call up his Ma.

“You two good?” Steve asks, foregoing a preface. He flicks the blade of his knife backwards from tail to head, scales flying everywhere.

“Fine,” Sam replies, following Steve’s movements a step behind. “You’re lucky you had an early morning, let’s put it that way.”

Sam looks up to catch the ingenuous pause in Steve’s expression. He laughs.

“Hey, you asked.”

“Well, I figured since I didn’t end up with a bunkmate last night--”

“I’ve made a habit not to go to bed angry,” Sam replies. He flips his bass on the stump to finish up the other side. Steve sits back on his heels, watching Sam, the wheels turning visibly in his head.

“Spill,” Sam says.

“I don’t like the way we left that bunker,” Steve replies, slowly.

“Blowing up and crumbling into ruin? Yeah, me neither.”

Predictably, with his hands wrist deep in fish guts Sam’s nose starts itching something fierce. He turns to the side and rubs his face against his sleeve.

“No,” Steve replies. He’s looking somewhere past Sam’s shoulder, brow furrowed in thought. “Bucky disabled the alarms. I had T’challa on comm and he reported no live interference. Nothing going in or out in communications. It was a low target.”

“So it must have been some internal trip-wire. Something old school we didn’t recognize or catch.”

“Why blow it up when we’d only swept the exterior? Barely had our foot in the door.”

“What are you saying?”

“We found it a little too easy. Left a little too soon.”

At this, Sam pauses. He looks up at Steve, letting the words sink in.

“It didn’t matter whether we left or not,” Steve says. “Only that we thought it had self-destructed if we did.”

“Then there wouldn’t be any point in looking for something that was no longer there,” Sam replies slowly.

Steve looks at him for a long moment before nodding his head.

*

Steve laid out the route they’d used on the initial run after dinner. He’d had grilled the bass out back while Sam made a pot of grits over the stove in the kitchen. He’d been stirring in the butter when Bucky emerged from the woods, barefoot, mud streaking up his calves where he’d rolled up his combat pants and leaves stuck in his hair. Sam had watched out the window as Bucky had plunked his toolbox down by the well and worked the pump up and down, the muscle in his arms and back straining. When they had their plates set out and gathered around the dining table Steve had brought up a corresponding map on the flatscreen.

“It was a decoy,” Steve had said, trailing a finger down the blank section where the storage bunker now lay in ruins. “I mean, whoever would get far enough to find it would already know most of Hydra’s tricks. And who’s got the resources for a guard on an inactive cell twenty miles out from the nearest supply route?”

Sam had watched Bucky’s eyes spark with interest, the way he leaned forward bodily in his chair. Their new coordinates had arrived as they'd sat there, and they'd run over re-routes until Bucky pressed his foot against Sam's under the table and Steve had excused himself with a wry smile for an evening walk.

Now, Sam says, “You’ve already made up your mind.”

Bucky stands by the window in their loft, wrist tilted out to hold his cigarette over the ledge. He breathes out before speaking, twin streams of smoke dissipating into the night air.

“Yup.”

“So I’m just supposed to watch from the sidelines?”

“You’ve never been on the sidelines. That’s what got you in this damn mess in the first place.”

“Right. My bad,” Sam says, cuttingly. He relents a second later, doesn’t know whether he wants to reach out and give Bucky a good shove or yank him closer, have Bucky press him down to the mattress so he doesn’t have to think or see or feel anything else. That’s the thing, Sam thinks, when the blame can’t lie anywhere. It just keeps floating around him like a storm cloud.

Bucky shrugs.

“Can’t imagine running towards what I’ve been running away from for years.”

“Steve deserves all the support he can get.”

“Steve deserves a fucking break. A nice quiet life somewhere he can actually start living. Quit being yanked around like a fucking piece on a chessboard.”

Sam laughs.

“My man, that is never gonna happen.”

“Don’t I know it.”

There’s a long silence while Sam watches Bucky’s profile, the half of him fallen into shadow. He presses the lit end out against the window ledge then spends a moment balancing the stub so it doesn’t fall, like he might be coming back to it in the morning at that exact spot. He wavers, hesitation written in the set of his shoulders, the fists at his sides, chin tucked down in concentration that the situation doesn’t warrant.

Sam reaches his hand out.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

Bucky nudges the stub one more time then runs a hand through his hair, expression unreadable. Sam can still make out the intense, unwavering look in Bucky’s eyes as he crawls into bed. Instead of straddling Sam like he anticipated, Bucky curls up at his side. He lays a careful hand to Sam’s chest, right over where his heart beats.

“Sap,” Sam says, but it’s soft and completely devoid of venom. He takes Bucky’s hand and fits their fingers together, palm to palm, and then he’s shifting closer and they’re kissing deep and long, chest to chest. Their legs intertwine in the sheets. Bucky sighs into the kiss, a soft, open sound. So maybe Sam’s the biggest sap between the two of them and maybe Bucky’s just decent enough not to tell him, because in that moment Sam’s chest feels so full it might burst.

They get ready in silence, Sam alternating between leaning down to kiss Bucky and swiveling his hips slowly to grind down on Bucky’s dick. Sam gets so hot for it so fast he fumbles the lube when Bucky presses it into his hand. It isn’t until Sam’s lining Bucky up and sinking down on his dick that Bucky lets out a helpless noise, lips parting with a sigh.

Sam lays his hands down on Bucky’s chest to steady himself and lets his head crane back, allowing himself the luxury of enjoying it, taking it slower than they usually do. Bucky slides his hands up Sam’s thighs to grip his hips while Sam rocks up and down on him, adjusting until the angle hits just right and he’s curling forward with a small sound.

“Oh, oh right there,” Sam gasps out. Bucky’s grip goes tight on him in response, then he slides his hands up Sam’s chest to grip at the flesh there, rubbing gently at a nipple. Bucky curls up so he’s halfway to sitting, Sam still in his lap, and their lips meet messily, wet, breathing each other’s air and eating up the small sounds that escape between them.

“Oh, fuck, Bucky,” Sam says. Bucky goes down easily, swiveling his hips up to thrust into Sam. He grabs Sam’s hard dick, stiff and helpless in the air, and rubs his thumb across the leaking head.

“Ahh, ahh,” Sam lets out, going wild. His climax moves through him suddenly, feels like it’s racing up his limbs and radiating outward from deep inside him, his ass clenching down on Bucky’s length and his dick shooting.

“Come on, come on,” Bucky keeps saying, even as he’s mercilessly thrusting up as much as he can so he’s fucking Sam through it.

“Oh fuck, _shit_ ,” Sam grits out, voice threading thin. Then Bucky’s gripping him tight and pulling him down on his dick until he’s shooting off inside Sam with a strangled cry.

Bucky catches his breath in no time, petting at Sam’s sides and sliding his hands up Sam’s chest while he breathes and unwinds. Sam pulls off slowly, then slumps to Bucky’s side. Bucky makes a disappointed sound, clearly enjoying all the conveniently placed naked Sam surface area at his fingertips.

“Took your time with that one, buddy,” Bucky says, turning to face Sam. Sam pushes at Bucky’s shoulder in response and Bucky lets him, laughing.

“Send out the Steve signal,” Sam says, between breaths.

“He doesn’t mind. Fresh air’s good for him,” Bucky replies, reaching for Sam again and clearly hoping for round two.

“Oh my god. How much do I wish I could tell on your ass,” Sam says. He tries to intercept Bucky’s hands and push them away which only turns into a lazy wrestling match until Sam gives up and lets Bucky hold him down, kissing at Sam’s face and neck.

“Bucky,” Sam says warningly, after a minute or two because he’s human after all.

“Fine, fine,” Bucky says. He presses one last kiss to Sam’s throat before shoving off the bed.

*

Dusk the next day finds them trudging downhill in a single file to their transport. The van is where they left it, littered with leaves everywhere except the hood. All four tires look brand new. Sam kicks at one appreciatively, raising an eyebrow Bucky’s way which Bucky returns, the barest of smiles pulling at the edge of his mouth.

When Steve turns the key in the ignition the engine starts up with a smooth purr.

“Nice,” Steve calls back to Bucky. Sam sticks his hand back for an upside down high-five.

“We good?” Sam asks the pair of them. He pulls Redwing from his pack and works the paneling on his forearm so the little guy hums awake in his lap.

“As we’ll ever be,” Bucky replies. Sam keeps his head down as long as he can before meeting Bucky’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. There are things he can change and things he can’t. He’s learning to accept that.

Bucky’s game face disappears for all of a second; he winks at Sam through the mirror. Then he’s looking off to the side, eyes searching the landscape. The van begins to move, tires crackling over the undergrowth as Steve starts them on their way.

 

 


End file.
